The Pleasure Master Read Free Page B

seem so threatening when he was puzzled. “Yes. I’m . . . the hair princess.”
    â€œHare?” A smile once again tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ye rule a kingdom of rabbits?”
    If she hadn’t been so confused, so
terrified,
she might have laughed, but who could laugh with her teeth chattering and her mind racing for an explanation. Any explanation. “No, hair.” She reached up and fingered a strand of his incredible hair, then jerked her hand back at the instant connection between them. “I’m Kathy, the Princess of Hair.” Acoma? Did people hallucinate when they were in a coma? “And I need to get back to New York.”
    He frowned. “I’ve ne’er heard of this New York.”
    Oh, God, please. “The United States?”
    He shook his head, and her gaze involuntarily followed the way his hair shifted like heavy silk across his shoulders. “I dinna know these places. Who is the king of yer land?”
    The
explanation,
so fantastic, so impossible, was now pounding on the door, tapping at the windows. “Uh . . . Clairol. My father, King Clairol, rules our kingdom.”
    He exhaled sharply, and his breath misted against her cheek—warm, compelling. “Yer father would do well to keep his daughter safe beside him. ’Tis a dangerous land ye’ve come to.”
    New York or wherever, men’s attitudes didn’t change. She took a mini-break from mental handwringing to strike a blow for women everywhere. “Women can take care of themselves.
I
can take care of myself.” Right.
    His gaze turned thoughtful, assessing. “Aye. I’ve seen proof of that. Henry would find ye amusing.”
    â€œHenry?” She glanced around her again. Hills, grass, a small grove of trees, the smell of the sea. No, she’d never been here before.
    â€œSurely even in yer kingdom ye’ve heard of King Henry.”
    The
explanation
gave up on polite knocking and tapping. With a roar of frustration, it kicked down her door, then stood with hands on hips, confronting her with its horrific magnitude, its
realness.
“What . . . year is it?” Strange, but her lips felt frozen, unwilling to form the question.
    â€œThe year of our Lord, fifteen hundred forty-two.” His answer seemed distracted, his gaze suddenly fixed on something behind her.
    She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would keep her mind, her soul, from shattering into a million shards of panic.
No!
How? Why? No, she wouldn’t accept his words. Time travel was impossible.
    Please let her open her eyes and find herself back on the side of I-95, smelling the wonderful smells of home—exhaust fumes and pollution. She’d never, never, never complain again about over-booking, clients who wanted green hair like the Grinch, or sexy cars that broke down.
    She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. Feeling suddenly disconnected from the strangeness around her—probably a defense mechanism of her mind—she turned to see what her companion found so interesting.
    A large cat sat watching them. Mostly white, it had red on its head and tail. Auburn. Denise Lane, third Thursday of every month. Kathy had told her all women deserved to be redheads at least once in their lives.
    The man moved up beside her, and they watched silently as the cat stood, then hobbled toward them.
    â€œThat cat only has three legs.” She was switching into automatic poor-kitty mode when the man put his hand on her arm. She drew in her breath at the contact.
    â€œâ€™Tis Malin. Ye must pretend ye dinna notice.He willna accept yer pity.” He bent down and ran his hand the length of the cat’s back. The cat sat down regally at the man’s side, disdaining to glance her way.
    â€œMalin?”
    â€œAye. The name means wee strong warrior. ’Tis a fitting name.”
    Kathy lifted her gaze to the man’s face. There was dark intensity in his stare and an